


When I look up from the pavement I know I'm gonna be just fine

by Tora



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, FTM Clint, Gen, Nick is cranky, Phil is a Fanboy, Trans Male Character, Trans!Clint, and a nap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tora/pseuds/Tora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t know what you’ve heard but I’m really not into bondage on a first date,” Clint sneered. “You could at least buy me dinner or something.” He grinned, baring his teeth like a snarl. The smiley ones didn’t really like it when he was a smart ass, and maybe he could provoke the guy into making a mistake.</p><p> </p><p>The suit didn’t react beyond a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He shut the door behind him and approached, setting the stack of files down on the table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Possible trigger warning for transphobia. More details and a few other notes are at the bottom of the fic to avoid spoilers.
> 
> Title is from "Saturday Night" by Natalia Kills

Clint was tired. The kind of tired that went bone deep and made every tiny motion feel like he had lead weights hanging from his shoulders. He hadn’t showered in nearly a week and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something that was a protein bar. His period* was two weeks late but he still had the cramps from hell anyway. At least he wasn’t pregnant, he thought bitterly; dehydrated, starved, and stressed as fuck, but not pregnant. 

 

He curled himself into a ball on the narrow bed and closed his eyes. He was exhausted but sleep was far away. Every nerve in his body was on edge, he wasn’t safe here, wasn’t really safe anywhere. The tiny, dirty hostel was echoing with noise: people talking, laughing, the scrape of moving furniture. All of it echoed in his ears like a raucous orchestra. It made his head throb, but he didn’t dare remove his hearing aids to muffle the noise. Every footstep that tramped past his room was another mercenary looking to collect the bounty on his head. He didn’t dare make himself anymore vulnerable than he already was.

 

He spent three hours tossing and turning on the narrow bed with his thoughts running wild. The binder around his breasts itched like crazy, but he didn’t dare take it off in case he had to make a run for it. He was starving, his belly hollow and growling, but he’d used the last of his cash to pay for the room and he didn’t dare touch his accounts in case Gregson had found them. 

 

Finally with a frustrated groan Clint rolled off the bed and punched the floor. The pain shot up through arm and for a brief moment it was a relief to have something that wasn’t exhaustion and panic to focus on.

 

He climbed to his feet, his hand braced against the wall when the room spun around him. Fuck, he hated this. Why couldn’t he have kept his fucking mouth shut? Why’d he have to be so fucking nosy? He didn’t need to know what Gregson was delivering to do his fucking job, but no, he’d had to go and look in the damn crates. And what did he find? Guns, big guns with some kind of tentacled skull insignia on the stocks. Clint didn’t have any idea what that symbol meant but whatever it was made Gregson mad enough to put out a hit on him. And here he was, running for his life, nowhere to go and no one to help.

 

He staggered to the window and peeked through the blinds at the busy street. Tourists and locals were going about their business as usual, a stream of moving bodies walking up and down the sidewalks. It the crush of motion it was an instant of stillness that caught his eye. Across the street, standing under the awning for the Indian resraurant, was an average looking white man in jeans and a I <3 Galway t-shirt. He was leaning against the wall looking at his cell phone. Everything about him looked casual and innocuous and it set Clint’s inner alarms screaming.

 

He jerked back from the window. “Fuckfuckfuck,” he snarled. He snatched up his bowcase and duffle bag, checking the gun at his back and the knives at his wrists as he yanked on his jacket. There was a fire escape on the backside of the building, but that was too obvious, there’d be someone watching it. The laundry room was in the basement, there must be an exit down there, maybe even a uniform he could steal and sneak out.

 

He yanked open the door and nearly walked right into the guy standing on the otherside, his fist raised to knock. Clint had a split second to register dark skin, bald head, glasses, a black suit that screams federal agent, and tranq gun. He’d caught the agent by surprise, and he had panic and adrenaline on his side. Clint lashed out. His fist connected with the man’s nose with a solid crack.

 

“Shit!” The agent fell back, blood pouring from his nose, and that’s when Clint noticed the other agent beside him. He had split second to register her presence before she grabbed him. The hall was a blur to his eyes as she flipped him to the ground. She had him pinned one arm yanked up behind his back in seconds. Clint’s head swam and he swore, his voice slurred even to his ears. There was a sharp prick against his shoulder and his vision went blurry. His limbs refused to obey him, and everything around him went soft and fuzzy.

 

“Fucker broke my nose,” he heard the bald guy grumble.

 

“I warned you,” the other agent said with no sympathy in her voice. “Coulson, package acquired.”

 

It was the last thing Clint heard before he blacked out entirely.

 

*

 

Clint woke up cuffed to a metal chair. He still had his hearing aids, he could hear the metal from the cuffs clinking against the chair frame, and the muted hum of the halogen lights overhear. He kept still, his eyes closed and head down, as he tried to assess his situation. He wasn’t dead, obviously. His head ached and his mouth was dry, but that was probably a side effect of whatever sedative they’d used. He was still hungry, still achy, but at least he was no longer too tired to function. And while his weapons were gone, he was still wearing all his clothes. He shifted a little in his chair and found that it was bolted to the floor, not surprising.

 

Finally he opened his eyes and looked around. The room was a small concrete box with soundproofing lining the walls. The only furniture, besides Clint’s own chair, was a metal table directly in front of him and another chair on the opposite side. There were video cameras in each corner, and a one way mirror to his left.

 

He gave an internal sigh of relief. Whoever had him was government, not Gregson or his thugs. They didn’t arrest him, so it wasn’t a law enforcement agency. Which left intelligence. The agents who’d grabbed him had spoken unaccented English, so American. CIA, NSA, or SHIELD? he wondered.

 

Goosebumps rose on his arms and a fresh shot of nerves made his stomach twist. Whoever had him probably wouldn’t kill him, but they could do worse. They could make him disappear. They could break him apart and no one would stop them. He started to sweat, and as much as he tried to keep still he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. He couldn’t focus on calming himself, and that just made him even more nervous. He was a sniper, a professional at laying in wait and keeping still, but whatever drug they’d dosed him with made it impossible to keep still and calm.

 

A sharp tap to his left made him flinch, eyes wild as he looked around for a threat, but there was nothing.

 

A few second later the door opened with a soft creak and Clint’s eyes shot up to land on the new arrival.

 

He was white, brown hair, blue-grey eyes, receding hairline, and dressed in a tailored suit that cost more than all of Clint’s belongings combined. He had a stack of files tucked under one arm and no weapons that Clint could see. He smiled at Clint, sort of. His mouth didn’t really move but the corners of his eyes crinkled into an expression that was probably supposed to be friendly but just made Clint even more nervous. Nervous and angry. He loathed the assholes who pretended to be all smiles and niceties right before they started hurting him.

 

“I don’t know what you’ve heard but I’m really not into bondage on a first date,” Clint sneered. “You could at least buy me dinner or something.” He grinned, baring his teeth like a snarl. The smiley ones didn’t really like it when he was a smart ass, and maybe he could provoke the guy into making a mistake.

 

The suit didn’t react beyond a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He shut the door behind him and approached, setting the stack of files down on the table. “Ms. Barton--,” he started.

 

“Just Barton,” Clint snapped. “I ain’t ‘Ms’ anything.” A split second after he said it Clint could have kicked himself. He knew what people saw when they looked at him, and now he’d gone and made a fucking stupid rookie mistake that might get him hurt even worse. He braced himself for whatever the suit would throw at him. He’d heard it all before. He could take it.

 

The suit still didn’t react. “Barton, then,” he agreed, easily. Too easily for Clint’s comfort. The suit took a pen out of his breast pocket and flipped open the top file. “What are your preferred pronouns?”

 

Clint scowled at him. He hated being baited, and he was confused why the suit would bother asking. “You fucking with me?” he demanded.

 

The suit looked up at Clint and shook his head once. His expression was perfectly blank of anything but polite interest. “I don’t like to make assumptions.”

 

Clint’s eyebrows shot up, incredulity written on his face. “You’re serious.”

 

“I have it on good authority that I’m rarely anything _but_ serious,” the suit replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

“Fine,” Clint growled. “He and him.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he waited for the suit to make a comment on it.

 

The suit only nodded and made a note in the file. Looking closer Clint could see his own mug shot looking up from the first page.

 

“Mr. Barton, my name is Agent Coulson of SHIELD. We have a proposition for you,” the suit said.

 

“Yeah?” Clint drawled. “Let me guess, I tell you everything I know and you don’t have me disappeared?”

 

“Only half correct,” Agent Coulson said genially. He flipped open another file and slid a photograph across the table for Clint’s inspection. Clint froze, his fists clenched tight as he looked down at the man who’d made his life hell for the last year.

 

“You tell us everything you know about James Gregson and his organization, and we give you a job,” Coulson went on.

 

Clint looked back up at Coulson. “A job,” he repeated, disbelieving. “As what? SHIELD’s personal assassin?” If he was going to be killing people he wanted it to be on his terms. He had no interest in offing people because SHIELD thought they needed to die.

 

Coulson shook his head. “Hardly. You’re far too skilled for that. It would be a waste of your talents. We’re offering you full agent status.”

 

“And all I gotta do is tell you about this guy? What makes you think I know anything about him?” Clint asked. He tried for nonchalance but he didn’t think he achieved it. He was intrigued by the offer, but it sounded too good to be true. In his experience good things didn’t happen to him, or if they did it was right before everything got fucked up.

 

“You did contract work for him last year,” Coulson replied.

 

“So?”

 

“He has a bounty on your head. I can only assume you learned something you weren’t supposed to.”

 

“Maybe I just made him mad. Or maybe he doesn’t like trannies.” The word was like poison on Clint’s tongue as he spat it out. Gregson and his goons had just assumed Clint was a lesbian and he’d let them. They’d mostly left him alone to do what he was being paid for. Clint didn’t believe for a second that would have been the case if they knew he was a guy with a vagina.

 

“Or maybe you’re far more observant then you pretend to be,” Coulson retorted. “Anything you can tell us would help put him in prison for a very long time.”

 

“And what if I really don’t know anything?” Clint asked.

 

“The job offer still stands, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“What if I don’t want the job?”

 

“You want to take your chances on your own?” Coulson was very good at communicating incredulity with just an arch of his eyebrows.

 

“I’ve been fine so far,” Clint retorted. He knew he was full of shit, though. He’d been mere hours away from getting himself killed before SHIELD grabbed him and he knew it.

 

“So far, yes,” Coulson agreed. Clint couldn’t tell if he was agreeing because he believed it or because he was being an asshole. “The human body is remarkably resilient but that level of hyper-vigilance can only work for so long. Eventually you’d slip up, or someone would get lucky. SHIELD takes care of its own.”

 

“Until I become inconvenient, right? Then you’ll drop me like a live grenade.”

 

Coulson leaned forward in his seat to meet Clint’s eyes. Clint refused to look away, bitter skepticism and challenge clear on his face.

 

“We don’t abandon our people, Barton,” Coulson stated. The conviction in his voice caught Clint by surprise. “There’s a lot I can’t promise you,” he went on. “We’re just as human as any other organization and we make human mistakes. However, I _can_ promise you that you will never be abandoned. You will never be alone. There will always, _always_ be someone watching out for you.”

 

Clint closed his eyes and dropped his head, Coulson’s words echoing in his ears. It was too good to be true. It had to be. There was no way this wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass if he agreed. But what other options did he have? Walk away and take his chances alone again? That hadn’t worked so well for him in the past. He wanted what Coulson was offering. He wanted people he could trust at his back. He wanted to do more than just shoot people for money.

 

He’d done a lot contract work for some very bad people; people who were afraid of SHIELD. And wasn’t that a mark in SHIELD’s favor? The bad guys only feared two kinds of people: the good guys and the worse guys.

 

Fuck it, Clint thought. He was tired of running. He was tired of not knowing when his next meal would be, where he would be sleeping, tired of being hunted. He slumped back in his chair, defeated and relieved. “Fine,” he said.

 

Coulson’s expression barely changed but Clint suspected the man was pleased, and maybe a little relieved too. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he said, kindly. Coulson stood and walked around the table. Clint tensed, wary of the proximity, but all Coulson did was free his hands before returning to his chair.

 

Clint sighed with relief, stretching his arms to loosen his joints and to get the blood flowing back in to his fingers. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Coulson’s gaze linger on his biceps, but he might have imagined it. Clint relaxed back into the chair. “So…what now?” he asked, nonchalant.  

 

Coulson’s eyes crinkled in a not-quite smile as he turned to the one way mirror. “Sitwell, get Achebe from H.R. down here with a contract and intro packet.”

 

_On it, boss,_ a man’s voice replied over the intercom.

 

Coulson looked back to Clint. “We’ll get the paperwork out of the way first, then we can talk about Gregson.”

 

“That’s it? No hoops to jump through, no senior officers to double check everything?” Clint asked. He’d been expecting a lot more talking before someone presented him with paperwork.

 

“That’s it,” Coulson confirmed. “Welcome to SHIELD, Agent Barton.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil's POV of the previous chapter, plus bonus Nick Fury being cranky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings apply from previous chapter, and a reminder that in the beginning Phil is unaware that Clint is trans* and uses feminine pronouns until he's corrected.

“You think she’ll cooperate?” Sitwell asked, his voice muffled from the ice pack he was holding to his bruised nose. Phil made a noncommittal noise and folded his arms over the file pressed against his chest as he studied the person currently cuffed to the chair in the interrogation room.

 

Francis Clinton Barton was not what he’d been expecting. For one thing, she was taller, more muscled in the shoulders, though still narrow and wiry in build. Her sandy blonde hair was cut short and wild around her head, and her features were too strong to ever be called pretty. She was wearing a pair of Army issue camo pants, a black muscle shirt and, if Coulson didn’t miss his guess, she was wearing a binder. Her skin was sallow and there were dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t stopped moving since they brought her in: her eyes flickering over the room, her hands flexing against the cuffs, and her leg jiggling under the table. She had the unmistakable look of a person who was operating on too little sleep, not enough food, and no time to stand down.

 

Watching closely Phil tapped a finger against the mirrored glass that separated them. She flinched, hard, jerking against her bonds and her eyes snapped up in search of the threat. Phil remembered that feeling from the Army. No matter where they were, walking patrols in rural towns or bunked down at base camp, he always felt like there was a rifle trained on his back, or a landmine under his feet. Barton had the unmistakable signs of hyper-vigilance that came from too much time spent watching her own back without a chance to stand down.

 

Coulson tapped his fingers against the file pressed against his chest, a thoughtful frown on his face. The Director wanted whatever intelligence she had on her last employer. Recruitment was not a priority. After reading the reports Coulson had suspected she would be a good SHIELD agent. Now, after observing her, he knew that she would do well with SHIELD. She was a highly skilled marksman, intelligent enough to evade SHIELD custody for two years, and, if his hunch was right, in desperate need of someone to watch her back.

 

He took a second look at the short hair, the binder that flattened her chest, and her clothes. Maybe he was reading too much into it, maybe she was a woman who simply preferred a more masculine presentation. Or maybe his hunch was right and she was not a she at all. There were no visible signs of hormone treatment, but then it was entirely possible that Barton simply didn’t have access to them. If that was the case, it was more incentive for Barton to join SHIELD. Their health insurance coverage was very inclusive.

 

Coulson straightened his tie and settled his expression into a blank mask as he planned his approach. He had enough information to know that Barton wasn’t the kind of person who would react well to veiled threats, and paternal concern would only make her angry. Honesty would be the fastest way to get everyone what they needed.

 

“I think she’ll cooperate,” he said to Sitwell. “You’re all set?”

 

Jasper nodded and gestured to the monitoring equipment in front of him. “Already recording.”

 

Phil felt the intensity of Barton’s gaze the minute he walked into the room and a shiver went down his spine. Her eyes burned through him, like she was peeling back every layer of fabric and skin to see to the heart of him. He tucked the discomfort away and gave her a cordial not-smile as he closed the door behind him.

 

“I don’t know what you’ve heard but I’m really not into bondage on a first date,” she sneered, before he could speak. She rattled the cuffs that kept her locked to the chair. “You could at least buy me dinner first, or something.” She was grinning like a wolf baring her fangs, but her body language was tense and uncertain.

 

Coulson didn’t react, but he was secretly pleased by the bravado. He set her files down on the table and slid into the seat opposite hers. “Ms. Barton--.”

 

“Just Barton,” she snapped. “I ain’t ‘Ms’ anything.”

 

“Barton, then,” he said amicably. Maybe he hadn’t been reading too much into things after all. “What are your preferred pronouns?”

 

She scowled at him. “You fucking with me?” she demanded.

 

Coulson shook his head. “I don’t like to make assumptions.”

 

Her eyebrows shot up, incredulous. “You’re serious.”

 

“I have it on good authority that I’m rarely anything _but_ serious.”

 

“Fine. He and him.” His narrowed eyes dared Coulson to make a comment on it.

 

Coulson only nodded and made a note on Barton’s file. “Mr. Barton, my name is Agent Coulson of SHIELD. We have a proposition for you.”

 

“Yeah? Let me guess, I tell you everything I know and you don’t have me disappeared?”

 

“Only half correct.” Coulson flipped open the file and slid a photograph of a large, brown haired, white man in a very expensive suit over for his inspection. “You tell us everything you know about James Gregson and his organization, and we give you a job.”

 

He glanced down at the photo then back to him. “A job,” he stated, disbelieving. “As what? SHIELD’s personal assassin?”

 

Coulson shook his head. “Hardly. You’re far too skilled for that. It would be a waste of your talents. We’re offering you full agent status.”

 

“And all I gotta do is tell you about this guy? What makes you think I know anything about him?”

 

“You did contract work for him last year.”

 

“So?”

 

“He has a bounty on your head. I can only assume you learned something you weren’t supposed to.”

 

“Maybe I just made him mad. Or maybe he doesn’t like trannies.”

 

“Or maybe you’re far more observant then you pretend to be. Anything you can tell us would help put him in prison for a very long time.”

 

“What if I don’t know anything?”

 

“The job offer still stands, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“What if I don’t want the job?”

 

“You want to take your chances on your own?”

 

“I’ve been fine so far.”

 

“So far, yes. The human body is remarkably resilient but that level of hyper-vigilance can only work for so long. Eventually you’ll slip up, or someone will get lucky. SHIELD takes care of its own.”

 

“Until I become inconvenient, right? Then you’ll drop me like a live grenade.”

 

Coulson leaned forward in his seat to meet his eyes. Barton was unblinking, his bitter skepticism clear on his face. “We don’t abandon our people, Barton. There’s a lot I can’t promise you. We’re just as human as any other organization and we make human mistakes. I can promise you that you will never be abandoned. You will never be alone. There will always, _always,_ be someone watching out for you.”

 

Barton closed his eyes and dropped his head. Coulson sat back in his seat and waited. After a long moment the tension released from Barton’s shoulders like the air going out of a balloon. He slumped back in the chair and sighed. “Fine.”

 

Coulson refused to allow his elation to show on his face. “Thank you,” he said, sincerely. He walked around the table to release Barton’s hands, dropping the cuffs on the table as he returned to his seat.

 

Barton eyed him warily as he massaged his wrists. “So…what’s to stop me from killing you and making a run for it?” he asked, nonchalantly.

 

Coulson’s lip twitched in a smirk. “I wouldn’t try it. You won’t get far.”

 

Barton smirked back and slouched in his seat, languid as a cat. “So what now?”

 

Coulson turned to the mirrored window where Sitwell had been recording the interview. “Get Achebe from H.R. down here with a contract and intro packet.”

 

* 

Coulson went straight from Barton’s debriefing to the director’s office. Nick hunched over his perpetually cluttered desk, a file opened in front of him and lines of stress etched onto his face. He didn’t bother to look up when the door opened.

 

“You better have good news, Cheese,” he growled, slapping the file shut and dropping it on his outbox.

 

Coulson dropped Barton’s file and a copy of his testimony in Fury’s inbox and settled into one of the empty chairs across from Fury. “Barton confirmed our suspicions about Gregson and Hydra. Gave us some new names, identified a few faces, and even some specs on their new prototypes.”

 

Nick snagged the file and flipped through it. His good eye widened, impressed despite himself. “She remembered all that?”

 

“Yes, _he_ did. They don’t call him Hawkeye for nothing, it seems,” Coulson said.

 

Nick replaced the file and gave Coulson a look. It was a very unamused, irritated look. “You and your goddamn strays, Cheese. Swear to fuck you look for these freaks on purpose.”

 

Coulson met Nick’s eyes with a flat expression that managed to be both unimpressed and chiding at the same time.

 

Nick rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that look, you’re the fucker who brought me a goddamn archer. What the fuck am I supposed to do with an _archer_?”

 

“An archer who remembers the specs of a gun he caught a glimpse of over a year ago. Do you need me to list all the times he’s evaded us? And INTERPOL? Not to mention the gang of mercenaries currently after the bounty on his head. He’s _good_ , Nick. With a good team and some training he could be amazing.” Phil flinched internally at the obvious glee in his voice. He couldn’t help it, though. Barton was just… the sheer amount of _potential_ he had in him to be a great agent and the fact that he’d agreed to join SHIELD meant he might see that potential blossom into a reality. It was Phil’s favorite part about being recruiting new agents, especially agents who needed SHIELD as much as SHIELD needed them.

 

Nick made a disgusted face at him. “Take that fanboy shit somewhere else,” he grumped. “Or I’m busting you back to probie.”

 

Phil smirked. “You know I’m right.”

 

“Right has nothing to do with it, it’s just obnoxious.”

**Author's Note:**

> TW for transphobia: Coulson refers to Clint as Ms. Barton because he is unaware that Clint is transgender, but Clint corrects him and Coulson addresses him accordingly. There is another moment where Clint refers to himself as a "tr*ny" and a non-explicit reference to him being mistaken for a butch lesbian in the past. 
> 
> Other notes*- At this point in time Clint is not taking hormones, and therefore still experiences periods. However, as most folks with uteruses can confirm, stress and lack of food can mess with your cycles. 
> 
> Also, I am not a trans* person, so everything written here about Clint's experiences are from my own imagination, books I've read, and from talking to my family members who are transgender. It is not my intention to insult or belittle anyone's experiences and if you feel I've been insensitive in some way please feel free to let me know. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
